


a little bit of a misunderstanding

by fouryearslaterdrabbles (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Political Animals
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, bucky looks like tj so steve makes a little bit of a mistake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2019-10-04 19:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslaterdrabbles
Summary: TJ isn't exactly known to be sober. Steve Rogers isn't exactly known for being high. The Winter Soldier isn't exactly known at all. Yet, somehow, TJ finds himself having an argument with Captain America, sober, whilst that man is coming down from a high and only a few hours later the Winter Soldier shows up. What a small world it is.





	1. Scene 1: TJ's Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a little drabble I began and am unsure if I want to continue but I'm putting it on this pseud for now whilst I think about it. so far, it's been really fun to write and I just love tj as a character so here we go.

In the plush comfort of the sheets, a figure moves, silhouetted by the brief darkness of shut curtains. Snores erupt from the persons chest before they shift again, arm flung over their eyes as they slowly draw into a hypnogogic trance before finally opening their eyes, blinking rapidly in an attempt to regain their surroundings. TJ watches, stock still, trying to remember who the fuck this is, his heart pal’pitating with the drumbeat of a frightened animal, the low that comes after a high bludgeoning him into silence. A groan erupts from the man’s - _huge_ man’s chest - as he sits up and stretches, scratching at his head with the confidence of a man who’s never done this before. He turns back to TJ and smiles awkwardly, lips crooking up at one side. “Morning, Buck.”

_Oh, shit._

In that moment, TJ realises a lot about the situation. Despite the shrouding darkness of his room, so much is visible from his side of the bed. His mind whirs, his heart pulps and his blood turns to ice. _Fuck_.

First of all, he’s looking directly ( _directly_ ) at Captain America. TJ doesn’t even know what the guy’s real name is: probably something patriotic. Although, TJ doesn’t know what a patriotic sounding name sounds like. Second of all, and probably more importantly, this man just called him _Buck_ and even in a drug-induced haze, TJ could probably say that none of his nicknames entailed anything near the name ‘Buck’. TJ has no idea who this guy is referring to or why he’s calling him that but it’s enough to drive him off the edge; the urge to take a line buzzes in his vein like a wasp ready to strike, unstoppable, impossible to ignore, unceasing. The third, and maybe most confusing, is that - just from one look - it’s very, very clear that TJ slept with his man. And…

Fuck. He slept with _Captain America_.

“Morning…Cap?” He says unsurely.

The man groans and fuck, TJ’s definitely fucked this up. “Don’t call me that, Buck, I hate it.”

“Oh…sorry.”

The man huffs a laugh. “You’re certainly more apologetic nowadays, aren’t you?” It’s at that very moment that the man seems to notice exactly what’s going on. He looks down, sees his nakedness and it all dawns on him. In fact, TJ can see the exact moment, down to the T, that the man notices. If he’s being honest, it breaks his heart. “Buck,” he gasps, “we didn’t…” and then he sees TJ and it’s all made clear. At first, he sees his face and for a second, it’s like he believes his own delusions but then he sees TJ’s arms laid on his chest, over the blanket, and he falls in on himself. “You…you’re not Bucky.”

TJ fumbles, eyes wide before he stutters a quiet “no, I’m not” terrified that this man is about to do something horrible: he may be a hero but he can overpower TJ with more ease than any man before and TJ’s had enough experience with that shit to be afraid of it.

“Who are you? You’re face it’s…it’s his.”

“Um…I’m pretty sure it’s mine?” TJ stammers, falsely attempting humour.

“No,” the Captain says, his face grave and dangerous, “it’s not. Who are you? Why do you have his face?” TJ sits up, trying to cover himself with the blanket, ignoring the way that Steve seems to have forgotten his nakedness altogether - army, he guesses - and tries to ignore his fear and the way his body is throwing itself around with hormones (just need a line, just need a _line_ ) as he says “TJ Hammond, son of the president, and the man, I think, you slept with last night.”

“Shit.” The man stands. “Shit!” He shouts, clutching at his hair like he’s only inches away from punching someone - and it’s probably going to be TJ.

“Um, Captain?”

“It’s Steve!”

“Okay, okay, Steve,” TJ coaxes, rushing to the bathrobe as he stands up and approaches the man, muscles coiled in defence, “calm down. We slept together, it’s fine. There’s been a little misunderstanding-“

“Little?! You tricked me into believing you were my best friend! And then slept with me!”

“Oh…okay, just calm down. I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t mean to?! TJ you told me you were him; I just assumed you’d lost some weight and your arm was covered…” the man chokes on his words, “I thought he’d come back for me.”

“Look, I’m really sorry. I was…I was…”

“You were what?”

“High.” He pauses. “And drunk. I- I don’t remember anything I did last night. But I’m sorry,” TJ sighs, relying on his previous knowledge of Captain America to infer that this man won’t punch him, no matter how much his brain is telling him he will. TJ is good at self-defence but against a super soldier, he has no chance, and his body knows it. The adrenaline pumps through him like fire is rushing through his veins but as Steve deflates and falls back on the bed, only sparks continue to fly. “I’m sorry,” TJ repeats.

“Oh shit. Fuck! You were high?”

“And drunk.”

“Holy mother of Jesus, forgive me,” he whispers at the ceiling. He turns back to TJ, mouth downturned. “You don’t need to keep apologising, kid. This is my fault. I didn’t realise you were high, or drunk, and that’s my fault. I took advantage of you. Oh fuck, I took advantage of you.” Steve buries his head in his hands and tries to push away his guilt but finds it just keeps tumbling back. He’s stood his whole life for fighting the bullies and last night…last night he became one of them.

“No, no! Don’t apologise. Steve this is my fault. Who were you to realise. I’m…I’m quite good at hiding it by now. I have been for years. It’s fine, it’s fine, seriously. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Steve looks up, latching onto the only word that TJ doesn’t want him to. “Years?”

“I’m fine,” TJ immediately spouts defensively. “It’s fine.”

“No, TJ, that isn’t fine. You’re an addict!”

“Look, I know you’re Captain America and you’re used to helping people but this isn’t your business. We slept together, that’s all.”

“Don’t use my reputation against me. I’m Steve Rogers right now and you’re an addict-“

“You’re the one who’s using my reputation agains _me_!” TJ shouts, the flare of delusional, defensive anger raging, undeniable and so unimaginably present. “You can’t say you don’t want to be called Captain America and then and call me an addict. I’m not just an addict and I am so fucking _sick_ of people calling me that.”

Steve takes a step forward stubbornly. “They say it because it is true. I don’t like being called a Captain because I am not a Captain, nor am I a representation of America. Captain America is an idol and I am just the man in the suit. You, on the other hand, are an addict, through and through. I know what an addiction does to a man, I know you would do anything for a fix and that alone makes that all you are.” Steve doesn’t mean to admit so much nor accuse so much but his own anger is flaring; he wants to run into a fight, he wants to punch, he wants to stand up for what’s right but, in the end, he’s only making things worse.

“How fucking dare you. You don’t even _know_ me,” TJ hissed.

“I know enough,” Steve retorted, spitting, closing himself into TJ’s space.

“You know _nothing_.” TJ looks up at Steve, his whole body raging with need, with want, with _anxiety_. It’s the emotion he’s been locking in a box and hiding, unwilling to show his own weaknesses but its so strong. He feels himself shaking and knows the fight will end with his own cowardice. Steve looks like Zeus: powerful, godly, infallible. And, in that moment, TJ realises Steve’s right; no matter how horrible Steve is being, he’s fucking _right_. But, if he wants to be, TJ can be just as stubborn as Steve. He’s an addict, after all, he’s not going to let someone getting in the way of his next fix by trying to _fix_ him.

“You’re just scared.”

“Who are you to talk about fear.” It’s a natural response, one that would work on a million different people but this is _Steve Rogers_ , Captain America, the man with a plan: a man that knows every nook and cranny of fear and knows every ounce of bravery it takes to overcome.

“Fear? Fear?! I have dealt with a thousand things a thousand times more terrifying than this so you don’t even have the standing to say that to my face. This is pitiful.” TJ chokes on a laugh, trying to ignore the welling sadness in his body as he tries again and again to deny the accusations being thrown at him.

“Pitiful?! You just slept with me because you thought I was your best friend, _that’s_ pitiful,” TJ accuses, his words like venom from a snake’s tongue.

“Don’t you even dare go there.”

“Why shouldn’t I?! You seem to think it’s okay to throw accusations at me!”

“Because I’m trying to help!” Steve screams, letting it boom louder that any of his other words, letting it stand out, letting it finally reach TJ’s brain that he’s not doing this for the sake of the argument.

TJ pauses, overcome with the need to run but unable to back down from a fight. “And you’re doing a pretty shit job of it. I’ve had my fill of people trying to help. I don’t _need_ anybody, I’m doing just fine on my own. Sometimes I just need a little help, everyone needs that. Surely you have a way to help you with the shit you have to deal with? You see death, Steve, don’t you have a way to deal with that?”

“It’s not drugs. It’s not an addiction.”

“But you have it there.”

“Yes but mine won’t _kill_ me.”

“Won’t it?”

Steve’s mind drifts the fights he started in back-alleys, the way his nose used to bleed for hours, how Bucky used to rant at him for hours about how much of a punk he was for starting those fights. He thinks about his new body, about the way he can launch a man across a room with a single punch. He thinks about the men dead at his hands. He thinks about the fact that he’s outlived his own lifespan. “Not anymore.”

TJ steps in even closer. They’re chest to chest now, their heaving breaths causing them to brush dangerously against each other. “Which meant it once did. Ergo, you can’t say a thing to me about dangerous habits.”

“At least mine was helping others.”

“Oh, should I even be surprised. Captain America, the man who sacrificed _everything_ , helping others at the expense of himself. Fuck off with your righteous shit, I don’t want to hear it.” TJ turns away, waving a dismissive hand at Steve. “Get the fuck out!” He screams when the man remains planted to his spot. No words leave Steve’s mouth and it’s evident that no more are going to come out of TJ’s. Steve leaves quickly after that.


	2. Scene 2: Hotel Room In DC

The clock ticks veraciously in the corner of the hotel room, taunting Steve with its perfect ticks proving that the everlasting passage of time won’t stop on his account; time does not care about his melancholy, or loneliness, it only ticks on as Steve wastes his life away staring at the wall and wondering where the hell his life took the wrong direction. He had thought he was on the up, he had thought that the Avengers initiative had dug him out of his own self-dug hole. Now he knows that it was only a facade for the emotions underneath. Sam would give it a name, he knows, Sam says there’s a lot of names for things nowadays. Steve doesn’t like names; it makes it all too real.

It doesn’t help that the ever-present, mind-numbing guilt of the past night haunts him. His tired eyes prove it all. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to think. He thought it was his best friend (but what kind of best friend sleeps with a brainwashed assassin to cover up their own fucking sadness), he thought it was something Bucky wanted (if he thinks about it, hard, he could hope that TJ wanted it too but Steve doesn’t like thinking much about TJ), he thought that there would be no regrets.

There are so many fucking regrets.

Steve doesn’t even know how it came to this. First, he’d left the hotel room and gone out to see Sam, making the most of the time he was in DC and not at the compound, and they’d had a few drinks at the bar - for Sam’s benefit, not his - and then Sam had said his goodbyes and by then the Winter sun had set and the earliest of the queuers were outside the bustling bars and clubs and then he’d seen him Bucky ( _TJ_ ) and he’d just ignored everything. He’d ignored the obvious signs, ignored all the mistakes just so he could see his best friend again so when he’d said “Bucky?” and the man had just said “yup” and crashed their lips together, Steve wasn’t in much of a place to argue.

But what had caused him to continue. He’d had plenty of opportunities to stop. As TJ said, Steve really would be pitiful if he’d been so desperate to sleep with his friend that he couldn’t even think logically. Something had been wrong. And now that Steve thinks about it, the whole night is a little blurry. He remembers Sam and then TJ, and then…

Fuck, it gets blurry. Something happened in between those two events. Something bad. Something that made Steve lose all awareness. Steve wracks his brain for an answer, tries to figure out what the hell went on and then-

_“You know, they say it’s the strongest thing on the market.”_

_“But, Buck, you shouldn’t be-"_

_”It’s not for me, Cap. A super soldier needs an extra boost, right? I could give it to you-“_

_”But, Buck-“_

_”Come on, for me.”_

_“Buck, what are you going on about. Why would you offer me-“_

He remembers, in his shock, the pill being thrown into his mouth with a giggle, he remembers swallowing reflexively, he remembers feeling nothing but elated as the drug pounded through his system with immediate effects. He remembers a quick fuck and passing out. A drug, even of strength, would never last but if it had just given him enough time for that- fuck!

Steve picks up his phone, fiddling with the now familiar buttons for a few moments before pressing on Sam’s contact and worryingly waiting for the man to answer, running a hand through his ragged hair. “Steve, man, how’s it going?” Sam says cheerfully down the phone.

“Sam, we have a problem.”

“What is it?” Sam replies immediately, already in Falcon-mode. If he’s honest with himself, he was ready from the start, Steve never calls.

“Drugs. Strong drugs. Something that could take even me out. This is really strong stuff, Sam, and we need to find out who’s dealing it.”

“Wait a second man, hold up. Go back a bit. Something that can take even _you_ out. Did someone attack? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. And no, Sam, I just know this is strong. It could easily kill a normal person. I want information on it and I was reports on any deaths in the area, stat,” Steve orders, slipping into Captain mode with the ease of pulling on a shirt.

“I thought we were still looking for-“

“We don’t have time for that right now,” Steve interrupts, pacing the room, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor, filling the silence with a deafening drumbeat, pulsing evenly, like an omen.

“I’ll call Natasha about this but first, you need to calm down,” Sam replies, tone serious, already noting down a summary of the problem to hand over to Nat: if anyone can find out what’s on the streets, it’s her.

“I’m already calm,” Steve argues defensively.

“You’re not. It’s obvious. What’s up?”

“You need to call-“ Steve tries, again, skidding around the conversation like it’s an enemy on his tail.

“And I will but you come first. Calling her now won’t make a difference in the long run. If people have this on them, they could take it anytime. Now tell me what’s up,” Sam retorts, not willing to give in to Steve’s obstinate attitude.

“It’s nothing, Sam.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s fine.” Steve pauses. “Really, it is!” Steve pressures, irritation taking the forefront. “This takes priority.”

“Fine, I’ll call Nat now. But promise me you’re okay.”

“I am,” Steve replies weakly.

Sam sighs. “One day, you’re going to call me for a good reason.”

“One day,” Steve exhales, hanging up and throwing the phone down onto the sofa with the care he’d have for a pillow. Phone’s are useful, he understands that, but he doesn’t have the attachment to it that most modern day people have. Huffing, Steve sits back down in the dining chair and taps an uneven rhythm into the wood until he’s sure he’s at least making a mark on the polished wood. The hotel room is unnecessarily palatial but it’s a room his younger self would only have dreamed of so when Tony put it on the bill, as with everything else the Avengers do, Steve didn’t have the energy to argue against it. Now, though, it feels vacant. He stares at the mini kitchenette and dining room and sighs, wistfully wishing that his knowledge of cooking was any better and then at least he could make use of it. Then again, Steve’s almost definite that the kitchen doesn’t facilitate much cooking; upon that thought, he notices the glaring lack of oven. Although there’s a microwave, the lack of an oven makes any kind of cooking - at least in Steve’s opinion - impossible.

Steve continues to waste away the day at the table. With no leads in the newly found mission, he’s left with nothing to do but waste more time away. He tries getting his sketchbook out but just looking at the black page is enough to make him shut it again. He tries to open a book but the words just blur together. He turns on the television and although he makes it to the sofa to watch it, he doesn’t pay attention to it, only staring outside the window until the sun sets and the moon rises and the cold Winter air begins to seep through the elaborately traditional looking windows: the building of the hotel is old and although refurbished, it’s fair to say that some of the original features are inconvenient, only there for style.

With a heavy heart, Steve gets dressed for bed, brushes his teeth and checks for any messages from Nat (she rarely calls unless it’s something she really can’t fit in a text) but there’s none. He has half the mind to text Sam and check that he’s gotten in contact or even to contact Natasha himself but he knows that both with simply get irritated by his prying so he gets into the bed vacantly and stares at the wall in some sort of false act. He shuts his eyes a little while after, hoping that it would look to anyone looking in like he’s asleep. He’s not. He won’t be for hours. But when he finally _is_ , you can finally see the tension in his shoulders fade and the lines in his face turn smooth. A sleeping Steve Rogers will be the only time the young man’s face looks young.

*

He wakes up with the nagging feeling that someone is watching him. His eyes are still screwed shut, keeping out the preambling beams of first light. It must be early still, though. Although it’s Winter, the sun is finally making its way up earlier and earlier and if Steve’s body clock is anything to go by, he’s barely slept four hours. Keeping his eyes shut, he shuffles slightly, trying to emanate a sleeping body before gently rolling onto his side, directly facing the place where he can feel the eyes peer out from the dark. Squinting them open, body coiled for attack, he spots nothing but darkness. Opening further, he starts to see the outline of a person, dressed what he can only imagine in black from head to toe (assassin, he thinks immediately. But what kind of assassin would wait this long for a kill?). When his eyes finally start to adjust to the dark, the features become evident; matted brown hair, clinging greasily to an unshaven face; dull blue eyes darting from corner to corner like he is the one being watched (well, Steve says to himself, I guess he is being watched now); kevlar from head to toe, mask and goggles missing.

“Bucky?” Silence follows. “TJ?!” Steve yells in surprise, pushing himself upwards and squinting at the man. No, definitely Bucky. Metal arm and all. Definitely Bucky, he assures himself.

Oh my god, it’s _Bucky_.

“Bucky, is that really you?” Steve pauses, eyes wide, as he swings his legs off the bed and sits facing Bucky, letting the man stand taller, dominating the conversation; the last thing Steve wants right now is the man running. He’s returned, he’s finally _returned_ , he can’t let him go again. “Bucky, talk to me, please.” He still garners no answer. “Bucky, come on, please.” The man continues to stare silently, eyes still darting like they can’t find a place to land. “Buck,” Steve chokes, his voice fading out as his body crumbles, back folding over, slumping like an old man in grief.

“Who is Bucky?”

“You are! You are!” Steve replies excitedly, back immediately going ramrod straight. “You’re Bucky.”

“I do not have a name,” the Soldier retorts, deadpan.

“You do. It’s Bucky. Please, buddy, you’re my friend.” Steve doesn’t know why he’s begging, doesn’t know what he’s begging for but the words slip out before he can stop them. Maybe he’s begging for Bucky to return because even in his presence, Steve knows no one is there. He can see the vacancy behind those icy eyes. He sees nothing of who is best friend used to be; but, Steve isn’t one to give up. This is his best friend, he’s not giving up on him. If he has to fight until he dies, he will - hell, he already has (almost, anyway).

“I do not have a name,” he repeats robotically.

“You do. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You were born in 1918. You grew up in Brooklyn. With me. We were best friends, Buck.”

“I don’t remember.” The Soldiers eyes are wide now, anxiety pumping through his veins like an injection from his handlers. His body is tense, ready to flee. He doesn’t even know why he’s here; he doesn’t understand what’s going on. There are words being said, he doesn’t hear them. They just keep being said. He focuses on them, focuses on-

“I know you don’t remember but this is real, Buck. You’re name is James Buchanan-“

“SHUT UP!” The Soldier wants it to stop, wants to stop hearing the name he knows is not his. Memories come and go, flying by like water in a stream. He can’t grasp any of them, they slip through his fingers each time. The name is there, caught on a rock, not quite moving on but everything ripples around it and he just can’t _see_. It’s frustrating; so much so that his body can’t help but lash out. He can’t take this, the not knowing. His missions were always so sure, so set, he did what he was told but now, _but now_ , he’s so stuck. Nothing is clear. Blacks and whites have become murky greys, like the sky of the dreary streets of Washington DC as he scrambles through the crowds in hope of purchase.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for but it’s something, something, _something_.

_Someone._

The feeling has stopped now and he knows he’s reached his destination but he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t even remember how he got here. He sees an open window - through there, then. But why? Why this man? This unfamiliar, sleeping, unprepared man. The one that keeps calling his name, that keeps saying things but is now backing away from him like a stray cat in an alleyway. The Soldier looks down: there’s a knife in his hands, glinting beautifully in the early morning light. He never recognised beauty before but now, now he can’t help but stare. It’s so- It’s so-

“Buck, put the knife down,” Steve coaxes, breath coming out ragged and sharp. The knife is right between his eyes. It’s hardly lifted, just sitting in his hand, but Bucky is so tall above him, looming over him like a tower over a mere ant. Steve’s breaths come faster, he knows if Bucky attacks he won’t be able to deflect. He doesn’t have the heart to kill him and in this situation, it’s the only thing he thinks he can do. Panting, Steve continues. “Buck, please, put the knife down.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Bucky spits out, completely ignoring the fear in the man’s words. They are unimportant. The knife is unimportant, only beautiful. “I don’t know who I am.”

“You’re James Buchanan Barnes-“

“Stop SAYING THAT!” The Soldier screams, his mind warring with itself. He can feel something pulling at him, a nagging voice telling me to listen to this man, to just give in and allow it. He fights it but it’s getting stronger, taking over, and he can’t quite push it into the darkness any longer. It’s bright, so fucking bright, in his mind, blinding him against the consequences. Keeps urging him to do the stupid thing until-

The knife clatters to the floor, filling the dead silence of the room with the sound of metal on wood. “Who are you?” James asks, eyes wide. Panic is truly settling now and his whole body feels like it’s going to fall into shock. His breathing is coming short- everything is-

“I’m Steve. I’m your best friend.”


	3. Scene 3: TJ's Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TJ realises how big a mistake he's made and attempts to rectify his sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short interlude (under half the length of how much I normally write for a chapter) but I wanted to get an update out, seeing as I haven't been updating regularly. 'Time Heals No Wounds' will remain my priority for now but I'd like to get updates out for this. Hope you enjoy :) Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated!
> 
> (Also, I have a new book out called 'Three Men In A Loft' and is my first attempt at humour. If any of you would like to check it out I would be very grateful.)
> 
> -fouryearslater

TJ paces back in forth, lost in the recesses of his mind. Fuck! Oh holy FUCK. TJ has fucked up so bad. So fucking bad. He can just see it now, the look on Steve’s face, the disappointed anger, the rage. The storm hadn’t had time to settle and is blustering TJ off the floor until he can’t think anymore. He’d reached for a line but all too quickly, Steve’s words had come back to haunt him: “You’re just scared.” Because he is, he really fucking is. Steve’s right. He’s an addict because he’s scared out of his fucking mind: of reality, losing control, abandonment and fucking everything else under the sun.

He’d never listened to anyone else but somehow this stands out. This is Captain America; this is the man who stands for what America is. And TJ had called him pitiful and a coward. Fuck.

He’d also slept with him. The night is still fuzzy, he can barely recall a moment (he can barely recall why he was high) but he knows he slept with him. He knows that for sure. But why the hell would Steve sleep with _him_. TJ knows that he thought he was his best friend but that doesn’t add up. Steve is one of the leading stealth operatives of the world, he works for SHIELD after all and after the data leak, all his missions had been released to the web for anyone to see. So, TJ knew personally just how good of a stealth operative he was. But this, this isn’t right. Steve would know, even if they looked identical, that TJ was not his best friend.

Something had to have been wrong with Steve, he knew it.

TJ looks at the drawer, still laying open by his bed, that has his stash in it. No need to hide it better when there’s no visitors poking about. His mother is in France with Doug and Anne. His father is in New York and his grandma always brings him to her. So, once free from them, he knows absolutely no one but druggies to find his stash. And, they’re the best people to hit with. Though, he guesses that’s not quite right anymore; Captain America has probably seen it after all.

He stares at it doubtfully, spotting the bright pink pills inside. He hadn’t had bought them, had he? Staring at them with a gnawing fear, he picks up the bag - with no desire to take what’s inside - and inspects them. On one side, a large S is printed, perfectly neat and tidy. On the other, is a shield. Captain America’s shield to be precise and…fuck, it all comes flooding back.

“It’ll knock you out good,” the dealer whispered to him, smiling like only a high person could. This dealer was crappy but he got the shit out. “Strong enough even for Cap, they’re saying. It’s good stuff.” TJ, already drunk as fuck, had taken it and paid the last bits of his cash for it.

Now, he realises just how much he fucked up.

And he doesn’t even have a way to contact Steve to apologise. Because he’d just compromised a super soldier, (ex) SHIELD operative and hero by giving him drugs. He had to have. What else could explain the night? What else could have made Steve fucking Rogers completely oblivious to the fact that TJ was _not_ his best friend. Fuck, this stuff must be strong. Strong enough for an easy OD. Had TJ taken one too?If he had, he was fucked. Then again, he felt fine now so he’d take that as a plus. At least if he died, he could think of it as some kind of penance for his shittiness. He’d literally compromised a famous spy, one that probably had a thousand people who wanted to kill him and he’d done it without even realising.

Buzzing, he knows he needs to speak to Steve. But, looking at the clock, he also knows has to sleep first. He’s wasted the day away on an overactive imagination and a bout of depression. If he is going to get through tomorrow, he needs sleep. Tomorrow, he’ll find out how to talk to Captain America

*

TJ wakes up the next morning feeling more refreshed than he has in weeks. The usual burden on his shoulders is fading and although the itch under his skin is getting almost unbearable, the constant control issues of his life are starting to meld into the background noise. With a fresh start, he pops a pill (he can’t even be arsed to read what it is but he needs _something_ if he doesn’t want to go into withdrawal…again. And, bar the pink package, his body is used to whatever else is in there and pretty much all of them are stimulants with similar effects. Not looking carefully will make no difference to his day). He goes about his morning routine quickly, showering and changing in record time before opening his laptop and trying to find any way to get in contact with Steve. He shoots his mum an email but doesn’t expect it to be read or, if it does, to be answered because whenever he puts the phrase ‘I can’t explain’ she usually demands an explanation. Fuck people not trusting addicts. He’s fine! He’s just a little more buzzing than usual. His fingers are hitting the keys quicker than they should and his mind is going a million miles an hour but he likes it - somehow, despite the mess, it makes his thoughts fade away. Like TV static: it’s so loud and abrasive but there’s nothing to it just…noise. Next, he scours the internet but finds nothing but a few old numbers that were mostly related to SHIELD and would never actually get to the man.

But what he does find, after two hours of searching and a mind-numbing headache (and another pill he doesn’t want to mention) is an email address that might just be what he needs.

**ANONYMOUS PREVENTION LINE FOR HYDRA AND SHIELD RELATED INCIDENTS**

_Moderator: Natasha Romanoff_.

Exactly what he needs.

Now, all he needs to do it pluck up the courage to send the email and fess up for his sins. To the Black Widow, even more of a spy than Steve and no less of a hero - even if less of a historical figure. All it takes it one more pill and a line and he’s out of it enough that he types it with no problem. However, that doesn’t mean that it’s that great of an email. In fact, it’s a hot mess but he hits send anyway, ignoring any thoughts to consequences.

And this is how he gets into it, isn’t it? He believes the drug let him forget how he loses control over his life. But the drugs are what cause him to lose control at all. It’s Catch-22 at its finest.

Either way, the email is comprised of such:

**SUBJECT: I drugged Steve Rogers**

_Email Sent From: tjh@outbook.com_

(Not a great start but it would have to do and his full name isn’t in the email anyway so it doesn’t matter. Although, he doesn’t doubt that Natasha Romanoff is perfectly capable of finding out who sent the email.)

_I know the subject may sound odd and completely inappropriate but I have to tell you what happened before anyone gets hurt. I was mistaken, by Steve Rogers, for a man he calls Bucky: I don’t know who this is and, at the time, I was too inebriated to care but he later told me that it was a friend of his. Because of this, he trusted me and sometime in the evening of our meeting, I gave him a drug that stopped him from noticing the difference between me and this other man. I then took advantage of him, both high and intoxicated at the time. But, that is unimportant right now unless he pursues legal action. I am afraid about the drug I gave him being on the streets. If I was able to incapacitate Captain America then this drug is strong enough to kill people. I’m sorry if this is not what this is for but it was the only way I knew how to get in contact._

_-TJH_

He signs off as anonymously as he can without being suspicious and presses send, closes his email with a loud click and slams his laptop shut, resting his head on the cool metal. He’s fucked up and writing it only solidifies the embarrassment. All of a sudden, it dawns on him (fuck, the drugs wear off quickly nowadays). He could get _arrested_ for this. His mother is president, it would be political scandal, more so than everything he’s done before. Being a druggie is one thing but a _rapist_ is another. He doesn’t feel like he raped anyone; in his right mind, it was something he’d never do. But it _is_ rape what he did, or - more accurately - sexual assault. He gave someone a drug and raped them and Steve has every right to prosecute him and TJ doesn’t stand a chance. He’s going to prison. He’s probably going to fucking prison.

His bleak thoughts are interrupted by the irritatingly joyous ping of his phone. Sloppily, he grabs at the phone, pressing his thumb to the sensor to see a notification lingering at the top of this screen. _Email from: nromanoff@agency894.com_. He opens it hesitantly, skimming over the first line.

Well, fuck.


	4. Scene 4: Hotel Room In DC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky try and solve too many problems at once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! An update in three days (or is it four?) not bad. I'm off school today because it's snow (because in England, a cm of snow is enough for the whole country to go to chaos) and I thought I'd get this out. This was HEAVILY inspired by Billie Eillish's new song 'bury a friend' and some of the lyrics are in this so I guess they get copyright XD
> 
> (Also, I'm sorry about how short all of these chapters are but because I'm doing them like scenes, they can kind of go on for any length)
> 
> Either way, enjoy this chapter :D Kudos and comments are hugely appreciated!

Steve stares at Bucky precariously from the corner of his eye, pacing effortlessly back and forth. Bucky watches stubbornly, arms folded. “I’m not your best friend, I am the asset.” Steve paces faster, like he hasn’t already heard those words spilling from his _best friend’s_ lips a thousand times already.

“No, Buck, you know me. I know you do.”

“I am the asset. I don’t know people. I kill people.” Steve stops in his tracks, those words haven’t come out of Bucky’s mouths before. Those words are new: a terrifyingly, gorily, earth-shatteringly new.

“You don’t kill people. You didn’t want to. They forced you.”

“I don’t mind killing…”

“No, Bucky. Don’t say that. Fuck, please don’t say that,” he mutters.

“But it’s true,” Bucky replies, a frown marring his features.

“But you don’t enjoy it. You didn’t say you enjoy it-“

“The Asset does not enjoy things.”

“But Bucky does! And you _are_ Bucky.” Steve finally has to grudgingly admit that the impasse they’re stuck at isn’t going to shift. They’re running around in circles, always landing on the same mundane argument: are The Asset and Bucky Barnes one and the same?

“I don’t remember being Bucky.”

“Because you _are_ Bucky. You don’t remember being yourself. You are just you. You are him. Sure, you’re missing a few things but you’re still him!” Steve argues stubbornly.

“I’m not. Even if I am as you claim. If I don’t remember him, I am not him.” Steve sighs, clutching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, wishing away the mounting headache in his temples. “That’s debatable, Buck, sure. But I don’t believe that. I believe your memories are still in there. They have to be.”

Bucky frowns, inspecting Steve until his eyes catch on Steve’s, the tension palpable as he slowly recites something his mind has already said over and over again. “You are desperate for your dead best friend. I am not him.”

“No! Stop doing that! You are him. I know you are.”

“No one ever told me that Captain America was so…emotional,” he deadpans.

Steve huffs. “So you know my reputation. But, you also know me, you know what I’m really like, Buck, you just need to think.”

“I don’t want to think. Thinking brings bad things back.”

“See! That’s it! HYDRA are controlling you that way. If you’re too scared to look back, you’ll never find yourself again. Look, right now, you don’t have to look back right now. I can prove it to you that you’re him.” Steve, now determined, strides purposefully to his laptop, sits on the bed and taps the place beside him to beckon Bucky. Tapping slowly at individual letters with two fingers, he finally gets the page he wants up.

**JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES**

_American War Hero or Just Captain America’s Sidekick?_

Steve isn’t fussed by the article itself - although if he bothered to read it, he wouldn’t be far off from punching the screen, smashing hit laptop and throwing it against a wall - so he scrolls right by the large block of text and to the large picture of Bucky, taken on a boat crossing the Mediterranean: the camera crew had followed them around for a long, long time, so far that Steve almost tried to losing them in Greece but turns out, camera men are harder to lose than Nazis. At least, with the bulky camera of the 40s, they weren’t exactly able to follow the action like they could nowadays, however - like a cockroach infestation - one would just keep popping up somewhere.

“Look, that’s you, right there,” Steve pointed out matter-of-factly.

“Thats Bucky Barnes, your best friend.”

“Exactly. And that’s _you_. Look at that face, it’s yours.”

“The Asset does not have a face. The Asset is a shadow, a ghost, the monster people warn their children about at night.”

“No, don’t say that. You aren’t in…children’s nightmares or whatever. But look, do you not see that that looks like you?”

“The Asset does not have a face.”

“…Buck, do you not know what your face looks like?” Like a wild animal, Bucky recoils away, wide-eyed with fright. “The Asset cannot see its face. If its face is seen, it is no longer a shadow.”

“But, have you never seen your face in windows…or glass…or passing a mirror shop, for god’s sake!”

“Mask and goggles.”

“What about when they came off? Like on the highway.”

“Immediate report back to handler. If face is spotted, wipe is amplified. I did not see the face.”

“God, Buck,” Steve chokes, tears welling slowly in his eyes. “Okay, we’re gonna get you a mirror.”

“NO! The Asset cannot see its face.”

“Buck, you have the right to see your own _face_.”

“No, no,” Bucky panics. “The wipe hurts. It hurts. I don’t want more. I can do better! I can do-“

“Buck,” Steve interrupts, eyes as hard as steel as he settles backwards and lets Captain America take the forefront. “There is no wipe. There is no pain. Only a mirror. They will never know you know. Are you to report back to them soon?”

“Two days.”

“And by then, you will know how to lie.”

“The Asset must not lie to its handlers.”

“So you’re going to learn how.”

“Handlers will know I’m lying.”

“They won’t.”

“I don’t want to be wiped.”

Steve loses his facade. “I know you don’t, Buck. God, I know. But lets get you in front of mirror. We could even clean you up a bit.”

Bucky shakes his head veraciously. “The Asset will not see the Asset’s face.”

“But _Bucky_ will see his own face. Just pretend for a moment that you’re not the Asset. Just give me the benefit of the doubt for a few seconds. If you don’t recognise your face at all, I promise I’ll let you take me straight into your handlers headquarters, exactly where they want me.”

“They don’t want you. The Assets handlers are weak. They don’t know what to do. Since…since I was with you…on those flying ships, they haven’t been focused on you. It’s good, I keep their focus away from you.”

“Do you know why you do that?”

“Because…because…” Bucky fumbles, scavenging for a reason that doesn’t just state: you’re my best friend. Because that’s _not_ the reason. Bucky would remember. He would!

“Let’s just take you to the mirror.” Cautiously, Bucky nods and follows Steve through the main room and into the small en-suite. It’s a plain looking room - all white with no accents - but the hotel, after all, had seemed to spend all their money on the main room: the bathrooms, evidently, had come in second place. Manoeuvring Bucky to face the right way, Steve stated “look, don’t you recognise that face?”

Bucky looks up, noticing the fluttering of his eyelashes, the flash of blue behind them, the heavy shading around the contours of his face caused by the greasy dregs of his hair. He notices the sharp columns of his neck and the cleft in his chin. He notices the creases in his face, the only sign of his lethargic ageing. He notices everything.

But he sees something else, something behind all that, something that can change his mind, something that can-

“That’s…that’s me. That’s Bucky.” He stares wide eyed at the azure-blue eyes. Stares widely at the brown hair that’s grown too long and the stubble that’s gone to the worse side of a beard. He stares at the cleft of his chin that remains and the wrinkles that are new. But they’re his…they’re Bucky’s.

Suddenly, his eyes flicker to the corner of the mirror, where the reflection of Steve anxiously awaits his reaction. “Steve?” He chokes, tears driven to his eyes - though they will never fall. That’s his best friend. That’s his _best friend_.

But he’d forgotten. He’d fucking forgotten! He’d- He’d-

Memories flush through him like an antidote clearing the poison. He remembers the whistle of a train and the starving touch of the ice. He remembers the sharp pain of a drill to his arm and the delicate touch of Steve’s dainty fingers when he broke his wrist. It’s all in flashes, none of them truly palpable, but he _remembers_. Maybe he cannot recall, maybe he cannot form a coherent picture, but he _remembers_.

The shock overwhelms him and his legs give out under him. Though he remains partially in control, he slowly sinks, his arms partially holding him up as the clutch at the smooth porcelain of the sink. His legs finally stop holding up his weight and his hands slip, drawing him slowly to the cool floor tiles where he stares wildly up at Steve like a lion just released into the wild - like a lion that can’t remember how to hunt anymore, who doesn’t know how to survive anymore, who has been crippled by the bars of the cage it was kept behind. “You’re _Steve_ ,” he chokes out, his mind hoarse and near silent. “You’re Steve,” he repeats like it’s a deity’s name in his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky whispers, his head tilting back as he desperately claws for purchase in his mind. “Oh my god. I forgot. I forgot you. I- I- Forgive me. Forgive me, god, for I have sinned. I have- Oh my god, I’ve-“

“Bucky, calm down.”

“DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!” Bucky screams, his nerves like a live wire. “Don’t-“ he sobs, though still no tears follow. “I- fuck- FUCK!”

“Bucky, you have to calm down. This is hitting you too quickly. You can’t…you have to let some of the soldier back in. You can’t handle this all at once.”

“I-“ Bucky corners himself into the space between the sink and the bathtub, shaking his head. “I have to. I can’t- I can’t become him again. Don’t- don’t let them make me him again.”

“Buck, you have to stop. The Asset is the only thing keeping you alive. These memories, all of them at once, you can’t handle them!”

“But I-“

“You need to!”

“I-“ Bucky pauses, hitting his head against the wall once. “Okay,” he breathes, his lips trembling with unformed words, resting his head harshly on the cool marble. “Okay.” He looks at Steve from the bottom of his eyes, head still tilted harshly upwards. “God, what do you want from me Steve? I’m…I can’t be Bucky. I can’t be the Asset. I can’t- I don’t think I can be this middle ground either. I can’t-“

“Bucky, it’s fine. We’re going to take this one step at a time-“

“Don’t you see that that’s not how this works?! You were right. I can’t just be Bucky but not because the memories or the pain but because I’m not him anymore. No matter how much I want to be, I will always feel the Asset. That’s where the fear comes from. I can feel him lurking because _I am him too_.” He pauses pregnantly. “I’m sorry. I just- This is hard. Suddenly, it’s like I’ve been shoved back into my own body but the previous person hasn’t moved out the way yet.”

“I get it. You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t get it but that’s fine. I can live with that. But seriously, Steve, I can’t control this. I can’t control who’s at the forefront of my mind. I may have said they didn’t want you but they will soon and they are going to get you straight through me. HYDRA,” he pauses, choking on it like the word itself is a noose around his neck, “will want you. They’ve not been destroyed. They’re just recollecting. You need to run. God, why haven’t you already? Why do you have to be this stubborn-“

“I’m free to make my own choices and I’m making them.”

“Spoken like a true representation of America,” Bucky scoffs.

“Spoken like me. I’m not running away, Buck, that’s not me.”

“I know it’s not,” Bucky huffs, amused. “But seriously, sometimes I wonder what the hell is going through your head. You think by now, I’d have figured out your little punk brain out.”

“Don’t be a jerk. I’m trying to help.” The words are detracted by the smile that’s slipping over Steve’s lips. It’s dangerous, he knows it is. Bucky is volatile, mercurial and a threat to his life but Steve’s always had a weak spot and it’s always lay in whoever’s holding Bucky Barnes’ face.

For a second, TJ’s face slips into the frame of his mind. He dismisses it like a fly. Now is not the time to the think about it. Though, he does wonder how Natasha’s progressing with the drug situation.

Bucky sighs. “Look, I may be in my right mind now but we still have to talk about the serious stuff. When I’m the Asset, I’ll just do what my handlers want to do. This is my freedom so we need to talk now.”

Noticing the serious switch of the conversation, Steve finds it within himself to lose the smile and bring around the normal stoicism that trails him around like a parasite. “I need to know what you know, about HYDRA,” Bucky adds, his eyes meeting Steve’s in the exact same way that he used to when he was trying to find out small details about the mission. He was a leader through and through and he wouldn’t live with it if someone died on his watch because he didn’t know the littlest of details.

“Not much,” Steve admits reluctantly. “They’re scattered and we’re after them but for all we know, they have whole other branches that we don’t know about. We’ve rooted out all of those in SHIELD and SHIELD itself has disbanded but there could be other organisations. Really, you have more information than me here.”

“Okay, sure, we can work on that. When I next go back to the handler, I’m going to be wiped, it’s inevitable but I’ll find a way to get information to you-“

“Buck-“

“No, don’t argue with me, Rogers. We know it’s going to happen. It’s unavoidable.” Breaking eye contact, Bucky stares at the wall just to the right of Steve’s shoulder. “There’s no point in being scared anymore,” he whispers wistfully. “We shouldn’t be scared of the inevitable; it’ll only make it worse.” He pauses again, forcibly dragging his eyes back to Steve’s. “But I need to know how to contact you. Email? Text? Call?”

“Text will be quickest.”

“Fine. Give me your number on a note. I’ll text on a burner phone with the number 557038 written first. That’s how you identify me.”

“You’re identification number-“

Bucky frowns. “Oh, is it?” He laughs subtly, if not a little self-deprecatingly. “Guess not everything’s back but the memories are somewhere there. Better than nothing. But still, I’ll text you as much information as I can. But, for now, I have to go back to them.”

“But you just remembered-“

“And I could just as quickly forget,” Bucky argues. “I have to go back. This information could be the key to getting rid of HYDRA for good.” Bucky stands, taking a deep breath, plucking up the courage to take a step and go back to the monsters that entrap him. Fuck, Bucky had never been the brave one though, had he?

“Bucky wait,” Steve calls, although Bucky is less than a metre away; he stands up hastily, rushing to stand in front of Bucky. “Just stay for one night. One. I- I just got my best friend back.” And his face is so broken, like it’s been cracked open and smashed, that Bucky can’t even hesitate in his capitulation.

A whispered “okay” and some shuffling leads them to sitting onthe bed again where Steve wraps his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and brings him close, just like Bucky used to do with him when he was smaller. It’s like Bucky himself cracks open, revealing the dark and the light - though, nowadays, there’s a hell of a lot more dark - and he breaks under Steve’s gaze. “Why aren’t you scared of me?” He whispers, his eyes drawn to his metal arm, inspecting the crevices and mechanics of the dreaded limb - a reassurance, a promise, that he will never _truly_ be free of HYDRA because they have already taken something of him, something that can’t recover. And maybe…maybe that isn’t his arm at all. “Why- why do you still care about me?” He looks up, eyes pleading. “I’ve attacked you, tried to kill you-“

“And you’ve saved me. Over and over again, you’ve saved me. You dragged me out of that river. Why? If it’s not because some part of you remembered then I don’t think I can trust you at all.”

“I was still the Asset. He’s unreliable.”

“But as you keep saying, he’s also you. No matter what, even if takes me half way to death, you will keep my alive.”

“’Til the end of the line, punk.”

Steve almost cries on command. He can feel his heart clench in his chest, like its straining to hold him in. “Until the end of the line,” he promises.

*

Steve’s snores fill the room, followed by the steady movements of his rising and falling chest. Bucky keeps an eye on him as he strains to tie his bootlaces. His metal arm feels heavier than usual and the ache is all consuming but he fights on, ignoring the innate shaking of his hands. He glances over at Steve properly once more, trying to commit him to memory. He wonders, when Steve looks so peaceful like this, where he is. He hopes it’s somewhere nice; dreams are supposed to be nice. Bucky doesn’t have the same luxury as Steve but sometimes - _sometimes_ \- it’s enough to just see Steve have them.

Bucky only has nightmares.

And that’s the reason he has to leave. If Steve can’t run from him, if he can sleep so peacefully beside him, then Bucky is the one who will have to leave. Looking out of the window, his brain still exhausted from the round it took with memory, he lets it seep over him - the cold, icy flow of the Asset. He lets it freeze in his crevices, he lets it blind him to Steve, even when he stares. He lets the confusion take the better part of him. But he leaves just enough room to see out.

He needs to get that information after all.

But the rest of him-

The rest of him-

Is losing itself-

It’s going-

It’s-

Ready to comply.


	5. Scene 5: Cafe in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TJ meets Natasha Romanoff for the first time and tries desperately to find a solution for his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is another short one but I'm trying to update this story as much as possible. Thanks for the support so far! :)
> 
> -fouryearslater

TJ’s fingers patter nervously on the metal table. Bright sunshine beats relentlessly down on his back as the hustle and bustle of commuters scurry past the quaint, French cafe in Manhattan. He waits impatiently for a flash of red hair, his heart thrumming anxiously in his chest. He knows this is a bad idea, an absolutely stupid one, one that will probably lead to his arrest but fuck, he couldn’t just leave this be.

Natasha’s email had been concise - and that was probably the worst bit - stating the name of the cafe and where to find it. It only set TJ further on edge. How the fuck is he supposed to anticipate the worst outcomes when he has nothing to go off? Now, he just has to go through all of them: and there’s a shit tonne. Fuck, he’d go for a line right now. That sounds like magic.

He’s interrupted by the partially godly sight of Natasha Romanoff. If God was a woman, it’d be her. She looks flawless, red hair straightened to perfection - not a strand out of place - nearly tucked behind her ears. Her makeup, although almost so perfect that he can’t see it, is done both professionally and beautifully. If TJ swung that way, she’d be on the top of his list.

“TJ Hammond?” She asks, pulling out the rattling garden seat and sitting down before he can stand to greet her. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such circumstances,” she says politically, “but I wanted to meet you face to face about all this. I got a message from Steve, through a friend, that came to the same conclusion as you but you have the most intel. I need to know what you know.” Her lips move perfectly, not a word said wrong. Whilst he fumbles and retracts words in his mind, he can see the smooth sentences practically roll through her mind like a teleprompter.

“Steve knows?” He asks before he even asks her name (then again, it’s not like he doesn’t know it and she knows that) or, at least, checks if it’s the right person.

“Did you not tell him?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“I- I was going to tell him through you. I couldn’t contact him. Just tell him I’m sorry, though, so fucking sorry, I was stupid-“

“You were,” she cuts in, “but that doesn’t matter. Right now, what matters is getting this off the streets. Where did you get it TJ? Do you know what it’s called? Anything.”

“Um…” he pauses, staring off into the distant, musing in the loud pandemonium of New York City. “It has a shield on it. On the tablet. It’s circular, pink. They told me it could knock Steve out and…it did, I guess. I don’t know the guy I got it off, he’s a friend of a contact, not my usual dealer.” TJ doesn’t know why it’s so easy to admit these things when it’s Natasha Romanoff staring him down. He can’t find it within himself to hide the fact that he’s a fucking addict; he just says the truth. Maybe that’s her superpower, he thinks. They’ve never really ever told anyone what it actually is.

“Who was this contact?”

“Big Pat. Stupid name, I know, but it’s what he goes by. Owns half the high-end drug industry in DC. He’s well known.”

She nods, pursing her lips. “Yeah, I know of him. So does that mean it could be any of his contacts?”

“Nah. I found him Downtown. He’ll stick close to there for the most part. But, I don’t think it’s just him. If he’s selling it, all the guys are.”

“You seem to know a lot about the industry.”

TJ shrugs. “You’ve seen the news,” he replies nonchalantly. Somehow, it makes her lips quirk a bit.

“I have. You have quite the reputation.”

“Well, don’t believe all of the things you hear.”

“I could say the same thing about myself.”

TJ smiles and raises an eyebrow at her. “I saw the released files. Some of them anyway. I have a feeling that what they say about you is a lot different from what they say about me.”

“They’re still saying things, though.”

“Yeah…I guess they are.”

TJ continues to stare at the busy streets, thanking the waitress when she comes with the coffee he ordered, sipping it in silence as Natasha investigates him with just her eyes. “You know, if you do something like that to Steve again, I’ll kill you myself.” TJ almost spits out his coffee (fuck, he regrets coming here sober but he needed to be lucid enough to remember the facts). “I don’t think I’m going to be seeing him anytime soon, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Why? The only reason he’d give me the time of day is if it was to punch me to hell and back.”

“I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I took _advantage_ of him.”

“And from what I’ve heard, he thinks he took advantage of you.”

TJ gapes. “No, that’s not right. I drugged him. Why would he-“

Natasha sighs. “Steve is a self-sacrificing idiot. That’s why. I don’t think he’s angry about what happened that night. Though, I heard you got in an argument afterwards?” God, this woman could go from politician to a teenage gossip in seconds.

“Yeah. I made him angry.”

“How?”

He raises another eyebrow at her but gives in easily. No one ever called TJ infallible. Seriously, no one. “He found out I was an addict. He wasn’t very happy about that. I may have blown a few low blows too,” TJ admits (fuck, seriously, can he just stop spilling secrets to her. If this is what being a spy is then TJ is fucking afraid).

“So, Steve was basically focusing on all your problems and trying to fix them?”

TJ huffs a laugh. “Yeah, exactly. That a thing he does a lot?”

“Oh, all the time. But he means the best. And, quite often, he really does help.”

“I don’t need to get clean,” he snaps defensively, “I’m fine.”

Natasha just rolls her eyes. “Sure you are, TJ. But look,” she brings a pen out of her bag and starts scribbling on a napkin in perfect, swirling handwriting, “here’s Steve’s number. Talk to him. He’s stubborn but he’s also the forgiving type if you’ve got the right motives. But once again, if you hurt him, I’m not above killing you.”

TJ nods reluctantly. “Noted.”

“Well, thank you for your time, TJ.”

“You too.” With that, Natasha struts away, leaving TJ to sip at his coffee and wonder what the hell his life has come to.

*

Whilst in New York, TJ decides that it’s probably best to see his dad. If he was in town and he didn’t, well, Bud is the kind of person to bring it up for the next year. So, avoiding the long journey back to DC, TJ goes to see Bud at his hotel - an overtly palatial place with a few too many golden accents - meeting him in the lounge. “TJ! It’s so great to see you. What brings you to New York?”

“Just business,” he shrugs, daring his father to say anything. Instead of letting his father speak, he interrupts. “It’s nice to see you, dad. I missed you.” He leans in for a hug and ignores Bud’s tense posture.

“You’re acting…”

“Nice?”

“I was going to say different.”

“That’s not much better.”

Bud rolls his eyes. “Let’s sit.” Bud falls down onto one of the lounge sofas opposite TJ and watches him. “Something looks wrong. What’s up?”

TJ’s eyes widen as he sits down. “Wow, we’re going there fast.”

“You never see me unless there’s a reason to.”

“I-“

“I don’t need excuses. Just tell me what’s wrong.” TJ looks out of the window, leaning forward with his hands clasped together as his leg jitters up and down. Fuck, he should have just taken a line in the cab if he knew he was going to be this nervous.

“I…I drugged someone.”

“You what?”

“I…I made someone take drugs. And took advantage of them.” Bud leans back, shock planted steadfast on his features. “Fuck, TJ, what came over you?”

“I was…high…and…drunk.”

Bud smothers his face in his hand, breathing heavily. “You said you were clean.”

“Well…”

“What’s the boy gonna do? Is he pressing charges.”

“Not yet. I spoke to one of his friends today. They think he won’t but…he’s well-known dad. We wouldn’t be able to hide the trial and they’re gonna take his side.”

Bud’s eyebrows furrow. “Who was it?”

TJ shakes his head frantically, trying to quell the rising panic that threatens to overtake him. “I can’t say. I really can’t. But, Dad, if he-“

“We won’t let it go that far. Can’t you just tell me the boys name. I could sort this out in a few days.”

“I don’t think even you could fix this.” TJ looks up at his dad like he used to when he four, all wide eyed, childish naivety blurred by the hazy memories of drugs and sex, the tainting of his innocence.

“Oh my poor boy,” Bud sighs and rounds the table to TJ’s side, bringing him into his arms as TJ shakes. “We’ll fix this, I promise. I know you and I know that isn’t something you’d do with intent. We’ll fix it.”

“I’m scared,” he whispers, the tremors running frantically through his body. He looks like he’s already hit withdrawal (fuck, he probably has).

“I’ll protect you, TJ. You know that. I’m never letting the media touch you again, you hear me? Not again.” TJ nods but all he can think is _you couldn’t stop it last time, you can’t stop it now_.

TJ, lost in his own delusional waking nightmares, thinks about Steve’s phone number in his pocket. Maybe all I need to do is call him, he thinks, maybe that will fix all of this. But of course it fucking won’t. Whenever TJ tries to fix something, it all goes to fucking dust. He should know that by now.

He should know that he taints everything he fucking touches.


	6. SORRY!

This is such shameful self-promotion. But I'm sad to say that I have probably left this story behind. But! I have a new story on my account called 'On Other People's Heartache' which is actually not unlike this, only much longer. So far, the first three chapters are out if you'd like to give it a go :D

Thank you,  
(and sorry)  
fouryearslater.


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